


Rest Stop

by Lennelle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Family Feels, Fluff, Gen, Pre-Series, Sick Sam Winchester, Toddler Sam Winchester, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester, but he's trying his best, john's questionable parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 09:58:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11598249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lennelle/pseuds/Lennelle
Summary: Sometimes, John forgets he's a father before anything else.





	Rest Stop

They've been driving for four hours. The sun is high in the sky, the car is stifling, Sammy's been squirming for the past hour. His little face is sweaty and pink, his shoes have been kicked off and abandoned under the back seat. He looks only a few minutes away from breaking all hell loose. Dean, on the other hand, is equally as pink and sweaty and squirmy, but he hasn't made one noise of complaint.

A sign flashes by. Diner, three miles ahead.

Sam's eyes are wet and his bottom lip is quivering just as John pulls off the road and into the diner parking lot. It's mostly empty, not too difficult finding a space. It's when Dean hops out the car that Sam finally lets out a sob. John expertly unbuckles Sam from his booster seat and helps him out of the car, but Sam's already started crying and he probably won't stop any time soon.

Sammy probably doesn't really know why he's crying, he's just got himself so worked up that the crocodile tears are flowing. He latches himself onto John's arm and wets the bottom of his jacket with his sweaty, tearful face. When John takes a step towards the diner, Sam plants himself to the ground, still tethered to John's jacket.

There's no time for this. John is supposed to be meeting a witness tonight and he's already behind schedule. He hauls Sam up and onto his hip. Sam is still wailing, right into his ear, but John does his best to ignore it. Once the kid knows he's not getting any attention, he'll stop making a fuss. Dean trails along beside John on the way into the diner, eyes on Sammy and narrowed with concern. At only eight years old, Dean more mature than a lot of adults John knows.

"Is Sammy okay?" Dean asks.

"He's just fussy," John says. "He'll be okay once he's eaten something."

Dean chews his lip, clearly not entirely convinced, but he drops the subject for now. The waitress who seats them constantly fans herself with one of the menus, she speaks in a low, southern drawl, sounding about as fed up with the heat as everyone else. She hands John a couple of kids menus along with the regular one, then she plonks down a piece of paper with a line-work drawing of the diner's alligator mascot - wearing a cap and smiling like it's the friendliest creature in the world - along with a box of crayons for Sam and Dean.

Dean eyes the box and the paper, mouth curling, clearly offended that the waitress would think he wants to colour in pictures. Sam, on the other hand, is already scribbling yellow all over the alligators belly, tongue pressed between his teeth in concentration. His eyes are still wet and shiny, but he seems at least a little distracted from his tantrum for now.

"Can we get a motel with a pool?" Dean asks, tongue between his teeth as he builds a tower out of sugar cubes.

John pulls the bowl of sugar out of Dean's reach and says, "We'll see."

When the waitress comes back, John orders three glasses of water and ignores Dean's protests that he wanted Cola.

"Another time," John promises. He doesn't want to tell Dean that they're almost out of money. Eight-year-old kids shouldn't worry about the finances, and god knows Dean has enough to worry about as it is.

Beside him, Sam hiccups. He's crying again, but quietly this time, tiny fists rubbing at his wet eyes. The alligator is abandoned on the table in a mess of yellow, purple and blue. John shuffles closer and tugs Sam under his arm. The kid calms down a little and picks up a green crayon to fill in the alligator's cap.

Dean is pondering the grown-up menu, so John grabs the kid's menu and holds it out in front of Sam.

"What do you want to eat, kiddo?"

Sam sniffs. "Dunno what it says."

"That's not true. You know this word, don't you?" John says, pointing.

Sam squints, concentrating, mouth forming the shape of the word silently. "Ham. Buh- bug. Bugger," he says.

John chuckles. "Almost. It says hamburger. You want one of those?"

Sam, of course, shakes his head. John can imagine reading out the entire menu and Sam still wouldn't want anything that's on offer. Beside them, Dean has ditched the menu and given in to the crayon pack. He's carefully drawing a devil's trap on the blank side of the paper, face as serious as anything. John reads the entire menu out loud to Sam, and, as expected, Sam isn't interested in any of it. His face is crumpling in preparation for another round of tears, so John hoists the kid up onto his knee.

"Fish sticks," John suggests. "You like fish sticks."

"Don't want fish sticks," Sam says around the thumb in his mouth.

"Mac'n'cheese?" John sighs. He's beginning to lose patience when Sam shakes his head and squirms in his grasp. He lets Sam go, the kid shuffles back into his seat and presses his head against the table, more tears rolling down his cheeks. John says, "Sam, I've had enough of the crocodile tears. Sit up straight, would you?"

Sam does, reluctantly. John orders a cheeseburger with extra onions, Dean orders what John orders, Sam ducks his head when the waitress asks him what he wants so John picks the default. Sam likes fish sticks, they're probably his favourite, and they're also the cheapest thing on the kids' menu. Dean continues scribbling, now he's drawing a tall, blue stick figure with sharp teeth and claws. A wendigo, it looks like. The waitress heads back to the kitchen, sneakers squeaking over the black and white linoleum floors. Sam, meanwhile, has managed to make a wet, sticky mess of his hand where he's been sucking his fingers. John gets to his feet, plucking Sam up and balancing him on his hip.

"I'm taking Sammy to the bathroom," he tells Dean. "We'll only be a minute."

Dean nods, but doesn't look up, too intent on his drawing.

Sam dips his head into John's neck, sniffling and wetting his skin with fresh tears. In the restroom, he places Sam back on his feet, but Sam won't budge.

"Wash your hands, Sam," John orders. Sam sticks his thumb back in his mouth defiantly and stares at the floor. John sighs. "What's the matter?" he asks, maybe a little too impatiently.

"Wanna go home," Sam mutters.

John's caught speechless. Sammy doesn't have a home, never has, not like Dean who knew even just five years of his own bed and dinner at the table every night. When Sam was real little, only a couple years younger than he is now, he'd once asked where the motel signs were as they cruised through a suburb. The kid had thought everyone lived in motel rooms, he didn't know anything different. John had felt like crying then, just as he does now.

"Back to the car?" he asks.

Sam shrugs. He probably doesn't even know what exactly he wants. John has a guess, the boy wants his mother, even if he can't understand what a mother is. John crouches down and press a kiss to the top of Sam's head, ruffling up the curls on his crown. He brushes his thumb across his forehead and finds the skin warm. Sam coughs, not bothering to cover his mouth, hot breath huffing John's chest.

"You feeling sick, huh?" John says, and Sam nods. He ought to have noticed sooner. The weeping and the lack of appetite and the tantrums, the signs were all there. Maybe John's head is in the wrong place sometimes these days. He helps Sam up to reach the sink to wash his hands, then makes sure he dries them off properly rather than wiping them on his t-shirt, and then the two of them head back to the table where Dean is flicking sugar cubes across the surface. He immediately straightens up once he notices John.

The food has already arrived, and John is too tired and hungry to remind Dean of his manners, deciding just to give him a stern look. Sam shuffles into the booth first and stares at the plate of fish sticks, fries and green peas with a sour expression. Dean, meanwhile, digs into his burger with vigour, ketchup getting caught on the corners of his mouth. By the time they're done, Dean and John's plates have been cleaned empty, whereas Sam still has a handful of fries, three fish sticks and a pot of green peas left. It doesn't look like Sammy's going to be finishing it, and John tries not to mourn the loss of the few dollars the meal cost.

The sun is still shining as they leave the diner, and John should be hightailing straight to his next job, but Sam is sleepy in his arms and Dean is eyeing the diner's playground like it's candy. He's been running himself ragged, dragging the boys along with him as he hops from state to state gutting evil. Sometimes, John forgets he's a father before anything else.

"Go on," he says to Dean. "We'll stay fifteen minutes."

Dean blinks at him, and John tries to think when Dean last played on a swing-set. He can't remember, and it feels like a punch to the gut. Dean's already running for the park and flinging himself onto the monkey bars. John follows and sits himself on one of the benches, settling Sam on his knee. Sammy flumps into John's chest, thumb stuck firmly into his mouth.

"Dad! Dad, look!" Dean shouts from the top of the climbing frame. John gives him a grin, trying not to wince as Dean swings down a pole and back onto the ground. The kid only takes a second to catch his breath before hurtling off to the slide. It's been a long time since John took his boys to a play park, it's been even longer since he saw a smile as wide as the one Dean's wearing right now.

It might be a good time to take a break, John thinks as he pushes hair away from Sam's sweaty forehead. He knows well enough that evil doesn't stop, whatever took Mary from him is still out there, but the boys deserve their dad to themselves for a week or two.


End file.
